Page 12 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Yeah?” Liam crosses his arms, face unreadable. “That’s what it was about?”

“Just a thank you. For being kind to Ris.” I move to switch places. “She doesn’t meet many musicians these days.”

Not since Elena.

The familiar ache rises—memories of a house full of music. Lullabies and opera scales. Laughter. Life.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, I swear I still hear her voice, soft and lilting, coaxing Amnushka to sleep.

Liam slides under the bar, watching me in the mirror carefully. “Right,” he says, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Just checking. Erin’s got big plans after graduation.”

“As she should.” The words scrape out. I add a small plate to his load, focusing on the sound of steel on steel, not the memory of Erin’s eyes lighting up when she saw me. Not the way she looked at me. Like she saw something worth unraveling. “She’s talented.”

Like Elena was. Like Ris could be—if she chooses. If I let music back into our home.

Stop it.

I retreat to the pull-up bar, hoping the burn in my shoulders will drown out the mess in my head. It doesn’t.

Liam watches me, waiting. Because he knows me. Knows I don’t talk about things that matter unless they slip out.

“Ris hasn’t stopped talking about the cello,” I say finally, trying for casual. My grip tightens around the bar. “Maybe it’s time she had lessons.”

“There are many good teachers in New York.” Liam racks his weights, giving me a long, knowing look. “Erin can recommend someone.”

None of them will be like your sister, I think but don’t say.

Instead, I pull myself up on the bar, arms straining, muscles burning. The ache is welcome—sharp, predictable, something I can control. Unlike whatever this is. This distraction. This pull.

Even as I count reps, she sneaks in. Erin, guiding Amnushka’s tiny fingers across the strings. Erin, laughing, head thrown back, cutting through the noise of the Philharmonic lobby. Erin, sunlight turning her hair to wildfire.

I shake my head, push through another set, but she lingers. Stubborn and unwelcome.

Pushkin’s words surface, smug as ever:“The less we show our love to a woman, or please her less, the more we can be sure of keeping her.”

Romantic fool. He wrote those lines but sure as hell didn’t live by them. No, Pushkin let jealousy eat him alive, threw himself into a duel like a lovesick idiot, and died for it.

Still…maybe there’s something to be said for his misplaced advice. Because today? It would have the exact opposite effect. Ignore a woman now, and she doesn’t pine—she blocks you. Or worse, leaves you on read and moves the hell on.

So that’s what I need to do. Keep my distance. Don’t show up. Don’t make her feel wanted. Or desired.

Except—I saw the heat in her eyes.

And I want it.

I know what it looks like when a woman teeters on the edge of falling. The quickened breath. The lingering glances. The way she leans in—wanting to be caught.

And Erin? She’s already there. One step away from tumbling.

So, if I do what Pushkin advises—if I feign indifference—she’ll walk.

The thought should be a relief. It should make this easier.

But fuck, it’s going to be a challenge because she’s already living rent-free in my head, and I haven’t felt this kind of pull in years.

Still, this is what I’ll do.

This is what I have to do.

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